If it Must be Someone, At Least it's You
by thundercow
Summary: The muscles in her legs flex and the edge of her skirt creases at her thighs. — Mochizou, Midori.


**if it must be someone, at least it's you**

"You're such a loser," Tokiwa says without sympathy.

She leans against the drawer, her back curving as she fishes through the dozens of gifts he never had the courage to give to Tamako. The muscles in her legs flex and the edge of her skirt creases at her thighs.

"What's this?" She discovers a one with santas printed on the wrapping paper. "So it's not just birthday presents – White Day gifts, Christmas gifts, you got all this for her and you never managed to give any of them?" Her tone is one of disbelief. "You're just buying all this to make yourself feel better. You aren't actually doing anything." The bite in her words in fierce, but the look on her face is soft.

"D-don't say it like that," Mochizou struggles to sound firm, his hands clenching. The annoying thing about Tokiwa is that she's almost always right.

She wards him off with a casual wave of her hand. Continuing to rummage through his things, she stops when she comes across something that makes her eyes widen with curiosity.

Mochizou has to swallow a loud yell when she lifts up two plastic cups, a fine string dangling at the nooks between her fingers. "Don't touch those!" he tells her, squatting down to take them away. Tokiwa thinks fast, holding them against her chest, and his hands retreat in the nick of time. He grips his ankles in frustration.

"Tamako told me about these – this is how the two of you talk, right?"

"I guess," he says, muffling his face in his knees.

"I don't believe these work," she declares, her voice as sharp as it was hours ago in the afternoon.

Mochizou sighs. "They do." Of course they do, he's exchanged so many conversations with Tamako through them. He remembers the time she wanted him to bring sugar over, the time where she had trouble with one question in English, and that night where she couldn't sleep – he shakes the fog of memories away from his mind as he snatches a cup from Tokiwa.

He exits the room and stands in the darkened hallway.

"This is Ooji. Over."

"I can hear you through the door! This doesn't work!" Tokiwa laughs, and even though it's condescending, her voice is still smooth and confident.

"It does! Over!" he insists, tightening his grip on the plastic cup.

"It does not!"

"You're supposed to say 'over'! Over!"

He can still hear her giggling through the crack in the door and he gives up.

"By the way – Tamako's name is on this one. You've marked which one is yours and which one is Tamako's, huh? … Over."

The plastic in his hand crinkles.

"What do you do with Tamako's end, I wonder? Do you gaze longingly at it? Or do you hold it to your lips or something – or maybe you're just a pervert?" Tokiwa chuckles as she entertains the thought. The string between them vibrates, turning taunt when he tugs at it, for a second, hoping that it snaps. He holds himself back.

"Should I tell her about this?"

"What?!" Mochizou rushes back into his room, trying not to show panic.

He finds the cup placed neatly on the floor. Tokiwa sits, folded and regal in the quality of her posture, like a paper crane on his bed. She gazes out the window to the quiet, curtain-drawn room across the street. "Calm down. I won't tell her." she says absently, her face unreadable.

Mochizou gathers up the cups, and the fact that he winds the string around them so carefully and places them in their very own designated box in their special spot in his drawer makes him feel unsatisfied. Even more than that, he wants to just lie down and not think about anything for now. Instead, he settles next to Tokiwa on the blankets and both of them place their arms in the windowsill. Tamako's window is closed, like it usually is.

"Hey, Ooji. Think she'll open her window?" she asks.

"It's one in the morning, Tokiwa. It's too late."

"It's never too late," the girl says. She shifts, tucking her legs underneath herself, her skirt riding up again. Her thighs are pale under the moonlight. She perches her chin on her arms.

Mochizou doesn't reply to that. A breeze rolls through the street, freezing his cheeks and tousling Tokiwa's short hair. He feels tired all of a sudden, and leans on one arm. When his shoulder brushes against hers, she doesn't pull away, and neither does he.


End file.
